Of the Cloth, Of the Heart
by RunningInAir
Summary: AU/Dramione. Draco Malfoy has spent his entire life in training for Priesthood - celibacy, piety, prayers - the whole deal. What he doesn't expect is for a random girl from the local University to visit the Church, bringing with her a life and vibrancy he has never known. Torn between the holy path he has been groomed to tread and the freedoms this girl shows - what will he choose?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So, the storyline for this little fic came from Diarycrux on Tumblr. I'm not sure if she actually expected anyone to write out her random 2:00AM idea, but I got it stuck in my head, and just had to get it out. It was unique, interesting, and I got inspired.

Also, thanks to alwaysxsaidsnape for reading over this for me, making sure I didn't do anything stupid, and helping with some of the plot points and dramatic devices.

She is the best Parabatai ever.

* * *

The quiet of the cathedral on the evenings when there is no service never ceases to amaze me.

Golden-glowing lights hang from the ceiling at even intervals, shedding small halos of illumination onto the pews beneath them; the setting sun bursts through the stained-glass windows, casting would-be shadows of brilliant colors everywhere they touch; even the walls themselves seem to burn from within, their luminosity almost too much for the eyes.

It is impossible to view this room in all its brilliance without being cowed into respectful silence. Even I am hard pressed to carry any semblance of attitude into the sanctuary.

Hands tucked into the sleeves of my robe, I make my way down the center aisle. My footsteps interrupt the stillness of the evening, but only slightly. In fact, it is almost as if the soft clip of my shoes on the polished tile adds an extra element to the church, offering up a tiny spark of life, evidence that someone is here to witness the beauty of this place.

Of course, there are always one or two members of the congregation who visit on these nights. An older woman kneels at the foot of the altar, forehead resting against clasped hands, flaming red hair falling like curtains to either side, shielding her, creating a private room for her grief. Her son has been diagnosed with cancer, and she is here often, praying for understanding, healing, a miracle, or perhaps all three. I have lit a candle for both her and her son every night since she received the news. As I pass her, I rest a hand gently on her shoulder, her frame shaking with silent sobs.

"Thank you, Brother Malfoy," she whispers, and I squeeze her shoulder a bit tighter in acknowledgment, but I do not require her gratitude. I do the things I do because I know they are right, they are what I have been raised to do, and they are what I have always done.

Sitting on the front pew of the left side is another 'regular.' Frank Longbottom has lost his wife to Alzheimer's, no longer remembering her husband, her son, or even herself most days. I know that Frank, too, finds solace in the church. He is the only one who comes every single night, and I can tell which nights he has visited his wife – the soft crinkle of a candy wrapper in the pocket of his slacks can be heard when he rises to his feet, and the lines on his face are tinted with more sorrow than normal. He nods tiredly at me as I move to the table laden with candles, and I return the small gesture as I pull the lighter from my pocket.

I do not often disturb the peaceful silence of the cathedral, but I am overcome as I light the same two candles I light every night for Mrs. Weasley and her son, and then move my wrist to the right, lighting another two – for my father and mother. The soft tenor of my voice, quiet and reserved, forms in my throat as I hum a simple hymn. I always pray for my mother and father. They thought the life of a priest would be hard for me, and I must admit to myself that it has not been the easiest path, but what is right is hardly ever easy.

The flames flicker just the slightest bit as I move away from the table, the bottom hem of my robe falling just above the ground. Continuing the hymn, I move back down the aisle, pausing to straighten a few hymnals as I go. The Latin, as it so often does, escapes me, and it is wordlessly that I make my way to the back, exiting to the east side of the Church.

Truthfully, it has taken several years to become accustomed to this life: the piety, the celibacy, the routines, and the seemingly never-ending prayers, but it is – above all else – a peaceful life, and I feel I have found myself here, answered some great calling. There are times, of course, when I doubt that I am worthy of this path, when the pressure of my father to remain true to the Church and my beliefs nearly suffocates me, but in those times, all I need do is throw myself further into my studies and everything rights itself once more. I had thought it would be a lonely life; I was barely even five-years-old when I knew this was the direction my life would take, and that I was allowed no other, not that I particularly minded. The Nott's, a family whose heritage has been tied to the Church as long as my own, had a son my age, Theodore, and he was promised to the Church, as well. I don't know if our parents thought having similar fates would forge a friendship between us, but that is not _exactly_ how it happened.

Theodore and I get along well enough most days, but there are times when I cannot stand to even look at him, and such sinful thoughts only bring me guilt later when I am giving my confessional.

Father Lupin doesn't understand, but he is much older than we are, and I don't expect him to. We may all be wedded to the Church, but generation gaps still exist, and there is a silent competition between Theodore and I that the adults do not understand. Theodore isn't even aware of it, I'm fairly certain, but he is just so bloody perfect in everything he does. Never late for morning prayers, never stumbling over the Latin phrases, never having to do penance for anything. I do not fail often, but every time I do it feels like a travesty. If my father were to hear about my mistakes, I do not think even God could save me.

There I go again – my thoughts impure and riddled with doubts.

A sigh passes over my lips as I look over my shoulder at the sanctuary before stepping out of the door to head to the gardens. The Church is right in the middle of the city, so it is not a large plot, but the rose bushes smell so much sweeter at night, and I cannot sleep unless I have visited them. My steps falter as I see another form already seated on the bench I so often claim as my own.

_Theodore_.

Apparently, I won't be granted my solitude tonight.

"Honestly, Theodore, I know you're in love with me, but do you have to stalk me to my favorite –" The snarky comment withers and dies on my lips, tasting as bitter as they should. I know better than to taunt the other Brothers of the Cloth, let alone make accusations of perceived affection where none exist. It doesn't matter, though, because it is not Theodore who is here to chastise me for my wayward tongue (though if I had a pound for every time he berated me for using the Lord's name in vain, I'd be far wealthier than I already am…or my family is, rather); sitting on what I have come to think of as _my_ bench is a young girl. I can tell immediately by her attire that she belongs to the school across the way. Her uniform is crisp, ironed to perfection, and the burgundy shades of her skirt are vivid in the light of the setting sun.

"Well, that is certainly not a way I've ever heard a priest talk before."

Her tone is flavored liberally with amusement, and I find myself powerless to stop the sharp wit that so often finds me on my knees in contrition before God.

"Seems to me you've been spending your time with the wrong priests, then. All the _good_ ones are equal parts wit and faith."

_Oh, surely I am going to go to hell for this._

She laughs. It is, quite possibly, the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.

"Maybe you're right, Father…?"

"Oh, I am not a Father. Not yet." I take a step closer to her, inclining my head towards her in a nod. "Brother Malfoy, and you are?"

She stands up off the bench, slim fingers brushing at the material of her skirt. Unruly, chestnut hair frames her face in curls that seem to have a mind of their own. It isn't until she moves closer, a hand outstretched before her, that I am taken aback. Her eyes are so bright, so expressive.

"I'm Hermione Granger."

I take her hand, the warmth of her skin a stark contrast to the coolness of the night. Her grip is firm, confident, as if she fears nothing and no one in the world.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Granger. What brings you to the gardens this evening?"

She turns from me, and I think she is about to simply walk away, but she only takes a few steps towards the nearest rose bush. For a long moment, the only motion is the gentle wave of stray hairs pushed by the wind, and the bottom hem of her skirt fluttering in time with the breeze. My own robe billows about my feet, a few strands of my hair brushing along my forehead; but then she moves.

I can't help but think of how innocent she looks, here in the garden, hands outstretched to pluck a single rose from amidst the thorny branches. This must have been how Eve looked, plucking the apple from the Tree of Knowledge. So beautiful, so enticing.

So _forbidden._

Bushy waves tumble over her shoulder as she tilts her head, and I cannot stop from moving closer, wanting to see her face, to see the intelligence flaring brightly in the deep brown of her irises - intelligence and a curiosity that burns as bright as the flames of the candles I've just lit. Her lips quirk up on one side as she studies the rose, fingers lightly grazing the petals, releasing more of their intoxicating fragrance into the air between us; and I have the most peculiar sensation that I have just opened a door into a world that is far different from the sheltered life I have known within the confines of the clergy.

"Tell me, Brother Malfoy," she says, voice soft yet clear, the rose spinning now between her fingers – a dizzying array of red, "do you believe in God?"


	2. Chapter 2

"_Do you believe in God?"_

It is a simple question, one that _should_ have a simple answer – particularly for a man who has spent his entire life in the service of the church, but I find, for some reason, the word 'yes' does not fall so readily from my lips. Instead, I can do nothing but continue to watch her spin the rose around and around between her fingers.

"I imagine you must believe, given your chosen path in life, but I don't know if I can say the same."

Her eyes lift up, taking in the grand façade of the church, but there is no malice in her eyes as can usually be found in the gaze of those who do not believe. There is only a curiosity, burning so brightly it almost takes my breath.

Finally, I find my voice.

"Would you believe me if I told you that no one's ever asked me that before?"

Those brilliant eyes move to my face now, scrutinizing me, searching for truth, I imagine. It is painfully obvious that this is a girl who seeks to know and understand all things and does not rest until her mind is satisfied.

"No, I probably wouldn't believe you."

My hands slip into opposite sleeves, a secretive sort of smile gracing my lips as I return her observational stare. Her lips purse in disbelief.

"Really?"

I nod.

"No wayward souls seeking confirmation? No questioning minds seeking validation?"

I shake my head, amusement sparking in the shadows of my eyes.

"Does _everyone_ just take things on faith?"

"The members of the Church generally do just that, yes." I can't quite keep the bubbling laughter down in my gut, and the sound reverberates off the stone fountain and statues in the garden. She just looks so _offended_, as if she simply cannot believe the lack of doubt in the average mind. "I take it you aren't one to take things on faith, then?"

She shakes her head, curls bouncing off her shoulders with the movement. "Never. Give me proof. Facts. Evidence. The mind is too big to think so narrowly."

I incline my head, conceding her point. There have been many times when I have questioned things. Never aloud, of course, but when night has fallen and I have retreated to my room here in the Brotherhood Quarters, unable to fall asleep, I have stared at the ceiling and wondered if the things we preach, the things we have spent our entire lives learning about, and the things that we work to ensure others believe…if these things are true at all.

I have never spoken a word of such doubts to anyone, and I do not plan to begin doing so with this young woman, but a part of me yearns to confide in _someone_ – someone who will not look down on me for entertaining the more rational side of my mind.

Slowly, I begin to walk, indicating with a tilt of my head for her to join me. Together, we set off on an aimless pattern through the bushes and flowers.

"If you value knowledge so highly, how do you find yourself at a Church? Would a library not be a more prudent place?"

She shrugs a shoulder, looking up at me before directing her eyes around the garden. "I have a very hungry mind, Brother Malfoy."

"Even for things you do not believe in?"

She nods. "'Ignorance, the root and stem of every evil.'"

I look at her out of the corner of my eye.

"Plato."

"You know philosophy?"

"I study more than just the Bible. For someone who thinks everyone should have an open mind, you seem to have a set opinion on Men of the Cloth. The term 'hypocrite' comes to mind."

She scoffs. "Won't you get in trouble for having such a flippant tongue?"

A smirk twists my mouth as I look out over the garden. The lights of the city glimmer all around us, but here it is as if we are in our own world, all the worries of the secular plane far removed.

"That has yet to stop me, I'm afraid."

I'm rewarded with another soft laugh as we turn the corner at the end of the garden and begin making another lap around the perimeter. Far above our heads, the Church bell rings. We both pause, heads tilted, listening to the clear, musical tones.

_One…two…three…four…five…six…seven._

She sighs softly into the sudden quiet that falls after the chimes have stopped.

"I have to go soon."

My ribs seem to shrink, crushing my heart just the tiniest bit, but my face remains impassive. I have enjoyed her company much more than I had expected upon finding my solitude interrupted. A question dances on the tip of my tongue, but I bite down on it. I am not needy enough for conversation to ask her if she will return. It is more than obvious that her place is in a university, not in a Church garden with a priest-in-training.

"Brother Malfoy," my heart throbs to hear my name on her lips, "you never answered my question."

"'But he who doubts is condemned, if he eats, because he does not act from faith; for whatever does not proceed from faith is sin.'"

Her eyes flick up to mine, a sharpness there. "I'd prefer an answer, Brother Malfoy, not regurgitated verses."

"Now who has a flippant tongue?"

She begins walking again, completely unfazed. "Do not pretend to chastise me now." Her shoes make soft clipping sounds on the stones of the walkway, a pleasant contrast to the silence of my own slipper-covered feet as I take a few long strands to catch up with her.

"Would you not think a Brother would believe in God?"

In a whirl of chestnut hair and sweet fragrance, she faces me. "Are you always so infuriating? I've never seen someone go through such efforts to dodge a simple answer."

"You are most certainly not the first person to call me infuriating."

"I imagine not." Huffing slightly, she turns back around and continues walking, her feet leading her towards the gate opening up towards the street. She pauses at the wrought-iron, one hand resting on the bars. "As silly as it is to not doubt the words fed to you by others, it must be nice to be so certain of things. Not having faith can be a burden at times."

Her words resonate deep within me. "Tell me, Miss Granger, why do you _not_ believe?"

Without turning around, she murmurs, "'Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence.'"

"Oh, no. You don't get off easy with a quote if I'm not allowed the same."

The gate is nearly as tall as she is, the brick walls rising above her head by a foot or so. From the back, she almost looks like a child, peering out at the world with wonder, eager to discover all it has to offer; but when she turns to face me, there is a reserved quality to her eyes that speaks of years lived in a world filled with sadness. I have seen that look before, and I could have predicted the next statement to fall from her lips.

"How can someone so easily believe in a God who allows such awful things to happen to His creation? How can He make us all in His image, but then be perfectly content with all the sickness, the murders, the rapes…Why not just step in and stop it? Why have let it get this far at all? Would it not have made more sense to simply never put that tree in the Garden of Eden? To eliminate the possibility of Original Sin and thus give his Creation a perfect life?"

The longer she speaks, the more fire fills her words, until I feel she might burn me with her tongue.

"Why make a Creation such as the human race and not give them free will?" I counter, burying the thought that I am still regurgitating lessons learned. "Eve picked and ate from the apple because she wanted to, because she was given the capacity to choose her path, and she chose a decision she knew she should not have made."

"Free will." She snorts. "It is not a matter of free will. It is a matter of a parental figure not taking care of His children."

"Look around you, Miss Granger. We have been given plenty."

"Yes, but doesn't the verse go: 'the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away?' Don't presume to have me believe everything we have is a gift from a God who will just as easily take it back. I don't know about you, but I learned in Primary School 'no take-backs.' Seems that such a simple, and fair, rule would be easily followed by a Just God."

Despite my attempts to keep a hold of my temper, I feel my frustrations rising higher and higher. I want to answer her questions eloquently and in such a way that she can't help but believe me, but here I am, almost floundering under her queries, her statements like repeated slaps to my face.

Her expression softens, and I am only agitated further. The last thing I want from anyone is _pity._

"Think of it this way, Brother Malfoy: is it really free will if our only options are either to believe or to burn forever in Hell?"

My fingers, hidden beneath the sleeves of my robe, grip onto opposing forearms so tightly that I am certain bruises will remain the following day. An entire lifetime of spiritual training, and such an ultimatum has never made itself clear to me. Who does this girl think she is to come into my life and throw everything off kilter? Was I not struggling enough on my own? Was the weight of my father's approval not a heavy enough burden to bear?

"Salvation is a gift." My voice is harsh, much harsher than I ever intended to be towards this young woman, and I'm somewhat horrified to find that it feels _good_ to lash back. "One that should not be taken lightly. Perhaps you should spend some time on your knees in front of the altar, Miss Granger."

She looks taken aback at first, but anger swiftly floods her cheeks, the color matching the delicate flower in her fingers, though I know she is far sturdier than the rose.

"I do not need prayer, Brother Malfoy, but by all means, if it makes you feel more comfortable with your beliefs, _you_ can pray for me. I won't waste my time whispering words to the sky, waiting for an answer that will never come."

Before I can respond, she spins on her heel, throws the gate open, and stalks out. A sharp clang echoes in the silence she leaves behind as the gate crashes closed. I stand there, staring at her retreating figure until she is lost from view.

_What just happened?_

I pull in a deep breath and let it out slowly. It is long past the time I should have returned to my room. I turn to leave the garden, but a splash of color on the ground catches my eye.

The rose.

Irrational anger fills my chest again, and I scowl at the rose as if it is the flower's fault I was verbally bested by that woman. And yet…I reach down and snatch it up, holding it in my open palm as I sweep back inside the Church, heading straight for my room. Theodore is already there, seated at his desk, Bible open, notebook beneath his left hand as he scrawls notes upon notes.

"Haven't you read through that entire thing three times already?"

"Good evening, Draco." No matter what I say, I can't ever get Theo to react. "Where have you been?"

"The garden." My answer is short, almost to the point of rudeness, but dark eyes never leave the desk. Snorting to myself, I move towards my bed, snatching my own Bible from the nightstand and flipping straight to the verse I cannot get out of my head. My lips shape the words in silence:

"_Song of Solomon 4:9 – You have captivated my heart, my sister, my bride; you have captivated my heart with one glance of your eyes, with one jewel of your necklace."_

My fingers look even paler than normal against the crimson of the rose as I press it between the pages, choosing to not ponder the reasons why that verse has chosen now to stick in my mind. The fragrance of the petals fills the air around me when the pages close around the rose, and I breathe in deeply as I lean over to place the Bible back onto the nightstand. The flower within has pushed the cover up slightly. Frowning, I reach for the closest book to me, a history of the Knights Templar. It is heavy enough to flatten the rose. I'm not even sure of why I am keeping it at all.

I had a supremely frustrating conversation with a beautiful woman. It won't happen again, and I need to simply put it from my mind. Still, I leave the two books where they are – for now, at least.

A loud sigh escapes me as I stretch out on my bed, staring morosely at the ceiling.

"What happened, Draco? I can practically hear you pouting from here."

"I don't pout, Theo. I'm just going to sleep."

"In that case, rest well, Draco. Do not forget we are leading morning prayers tomorrow."

I groan and roll over onto my side, directing my sullen stare to the wall.

For the first time in years, my dreams are confusing and wild, full of russet hair and expressive eyes that pierce me with accusations and questions to which I don't have the answers.

* * *

A/N: Hi! Hope you guys liked this second part. I have to admit, this is hella fun to write. I have had a couple people ask me how often I plan on updating, and the only answer I have is 'when I can.' I know that's probably _not_ what you want to hear, but that's all I can promise you. With holidays a few days away, life is getting more hectic as the minutes pass, but I am in love with this story, so I will try and update as soon as possible.

I am beyond thrilled that people are loving this! Keep the great reviews comin' - it definitely makes me want to update more often to know that people are wanting more. ;)

-Running


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